As soon as the word left the marshal's lips, the gates snapped upward, and the fighters emerged. Hanover practically crashed through his, roaring. Rerdas' stomach plummeted at the sight of him.

He was huge, a solid mass of bronze muscle clad in fitted fighting robes. Leather bands crisscrossed his chest and back. Strips of chain mail that were more decoration than protection gleamed on his arms. He carried a thick curved blade with two cruel hooks near its base.

While Hanover charged into the open, Imalroc flowed into the box like water. He kept low to the ground and hugged the edge of the wall, his feet in the firmer sand at the edges of the battlebox. His hair was tied back in a tight braid that ran from the crown of his head down his back. The sword glittered in his hand.

Hanover planted himself in the middle of the battlebox and turned to follow Imalroc's movements. He swung his curved weapon in a lazy looping motion. The crowd muttered, waiting for the blades to cross.

Rerdas shifted in the handler's pew. Sweat collected at his temples and eased down his spine. Imalroc seemed to be taking his time with any direct attack. He worked his way slowly around the battlebox, eyeing Hanover the whole time but not taking one step closer to the younger fighter.

"Come on! Go for him!" The shout, from the benches near the roof, triggered a ripple of laughter. Rerdas kept his gaze pinned to Imalroc. The fighter leaned into every movement, no hesitation or fear. But there was also no aggression. He kept a wide distance from Hanover, orbiting him at the edges of the box. Rerdas found it hard to breath, like the air had changed. He gulped at it.

Hanover lowered himself into a crouch and ground his heels into the sand. Then he pounced. He flew the length of the battlebox in the time it took Rerdas to blink. His blade scythed before him. Imalroc ducked so low beneath it, Rerdas thought he was going to smash into the sand.

Somehow, Imalroc kept his feet. He dodged and swooped past Hanover, and out from being pocketed against the wall. His sword stayed level, making not so much as a twitch toward Hanover's flank as he passed. Rerdas hissed.

The Duke's champion spun like he was caught in a whirlwind. Hanover hefted his weapon. The bright, brittle sound of steel on steel pierced the air as Imalroc blocked and parried. Blocked and parried, but returned nothing.

Impatient, the audience stomped and clapped as Hanover pressed forward, clenching his blade in one hand while with the other he unsheathed a dirk from the leather bands on his back. He and Imalroc were fighting almost directly below Rerdas, who was half-hanging over the wall, close enough to hear Imalroc bite out a curse when he spotted the new weapon.

It was a nightmarish dance. Rerdas could hardly believe what he was seeing. Imalroc did everything short of turn tail and flee the battlebox to escape his opponent. And Hanover only grew more daring. Rerdas desperately hoped this was part of some deranged plan to tire the younger battleboxer out, or make him overconfident.

The huntmaster wiped perspiration from his brow and ripped his eyes away from the two fighters to glance up at the other handler. The man was braced against the wall, his eyes narrowed as he tracked Imalroc.

"Push him!" the man yelled, white spittle bursting over his lips like froth. "You're there, just push him!"

Rerdas could not be sure if Hanover heard his handler's shout, but something changed in the Duke's champion. His hands worked both blades in frenzied motions. The muscles in his arms bulged as he chopped left and right.

Imalroc wove between the two weapons like smoke carried on a swift wind. He made it look effortless. Until Hanover crushed his curved sword down in a blow that Imalroc barely managed to block.

The force of it knocked Imalroc off balance, his blue eyes going to slits as his sword locked into the hook at the base of Hanover's blade. A sharp twist, a screech of steel. Imalroc's blade was trapped in the hook. Rerdas clung to the top of the wall to keep himself standing. The crowd lurched to its feet like a gathering wave.

Inward danced the dirk, slicing through air and then cloth and then flesh, in a blow that should have speared Imalroc in his guts. It would have, had Imalroc not staggered to one side. His hand catapulted into Hanover's meaty forearm, and his heel hacked into the other man's shin.

Hanover let out an outraged sound that sounded more bearlike than human. The swords twisted again, with another ringing metallic shriek. This time Imalroc lost his hold. His blade wrenched from his hand and flew over the sand. It thudded to the ground a stride-length away. Imalroc dove after it, with Hanover bearing down on him. Delighted screams from the crowd reverberated around the arena.

Imalroc's hand closed over the naked blade of his sword. He flipped over, arm moving in a lethal blur. Rerdas barely comprehended what he was seeing in the blood-dotted sand below. One moment Hanover was barreling forward, sword and dirk scissoring in toward Imalroc's throat, and the next the huge fighter reeled away, his nose flattened against one cheek. Imalroc had hit him full in the face with the pommel of the sword. Smashed his nose to pulp.

Rerdas' hopes soared as quickly as his stomach had fallen. There had been no hesitation in Imalroc's blow, no sign of the hitch in his shoulder. It was as though the old injury had vanished. Rerdas pressed his lips together to hold back a grin as he watched Hanover stumble away from Imalroc, who had already regained his feet.

Hanover's handler screamed at his fighter to stop touching his fucking nose. Rerdas looked up at Etiana, who was cheering wildly along with rest of the crowd, buoyed by the sudden glimpse of Imalroc's infamous skill. The only person who didn't seem pleased was the man seated behind her. The Duke of Wester leaned back in his chair with his arms folded tightly, his face sour. His heavy-lidded eyes met Rerdas' stare, and the huntmaster looked away quickly.

Hanover and Imalroc circled each other again, although this time the younger fighter exerted a much healthier amount of caution. He stayed bent slightly over his blades, dripping blood and tight-lipped determination. They shifted and looped around the battlebox, neither stepping within arm's reach of the other. The hum of tension in the arena gave way to loud annoyance. The fight marshal stepped up to the dais.

"We are over strike time. The fighters must engage, or a penalty will be placed," he said, voice booming through the enormous amplifier.

Hanover glanced up at his handler, who motioned him forward like he was trying to herd geese. Rerdas leaned into the box, intending to shout something that would sound vaguely commanding, but Imalroc put his back to Rerdas. It was unmistakably intentional. Rerdas gritted his teeth. He had no idea how to get Imalroc to step forward and engage Hanover.

The Duke's champion broke the stand-off. He bounded away from his route around Imalroc, leaping forward with a flourish of the short sword. Imalroc darted left, but this time Hanover anticipated his escape route. He kicked and caught Imalroc in the ribs, sending the battleboxer spinning away from him. Imalroc staggered and blocked another strike, but could not get away quickly enough to avoid the dirk. The blade ripped into his forearm, leaving a long, scarlet trail. Imalroc scrambled away, but made no move to counterattack.

The fight collapsed in upon itself. Hanover no longer let Imalroc out of range. The blades whirled and clashed, and still the Duke's champion came forward. The dirk sliced in close, Imalroc ducked, and Hanover belted him across the back with his shortsword. Imalroc hit the ground, splayed across the sand. The battleboxer rolled, narrowly escaping Hanover's attempt to stomp on his neck. Instead, his huge foot landed squarely on Imalroc's collarbone, pinning him and raking the dirk across his chest.

Rerdas leaned halfway over the edge of the battlebox wall, his mouth open, wanting to scream. But his voice was trapped somewhere in his throat.

Imalroc squirmed free and made it to his feet. He lunged beneath the coming sweep of Hanover's sword. The blade missed his head by a hair's-breadth, but then the dirk caught the thick fabric of Imalroc's fighting jerkin at the collar. He was hauled up to his toes and flicked off the edge of the blade. He hit the battlebox wall with a sickening crunch. The crowd loosed a gleeful cry.

Hanover drove his sword into the wall, chipping across the wooden panels. Imalroc bounced off the wall and careened back toward the center, missing Hanover's open side. His sword stayed uselessly in a defensive position.

"What are you doing!" Rerdas exploded, finding his voice at last. "For the sake of the fucking Eternals, hit him!" His desperate words were washed away by the noise of the onlookers, but he heard an answer from almost directly behind him.

"Pull him from the box, sir," Warwick hissed.

Rerdas whipped around. "What?"

"He's not going to last much longer in there. And he's no good to you dead." Warwick twisted his hands together.

Rerdas stared at him, open-mouthed. Before he could formulate a response, the crowd boomed, and Rerdas swiveled back just in time to see Hanover break through Imalroc's block and kick him in the stomach. Imalroc staggered away. Hanover let him go, readying himself for another attack.

The battleboxer looked terrible. A long slice ran across one cheek, up to the corner of his eye. The other side of his face was swelling rapidly from where it had smashed into the battlebox wall. Blood covered the front of his jerkin from the etchings the dirk had left on his chest and arm, and he was practically hobbling. Hanover lowered himself to spring, aiming his bulky body at Imalroc's form, still bent double.

"Master Toriem!" Warwick's voice went shrill.

"He's got to win." Rerdas didn't look back.

"He won't. Please, sir...his corpse is worthless. Surrender the fight. He's not going to fight."

As if to prove Warwick's words, Hanover loosed a clumsy blow, tipped off balance, and collided with Imalroc. Imalroc only backpedaled out of reach rather than strike for the other fighter's exposed neck.

Rerdas gaped. The tight unease in his stomach bubbled into nausea.

"How? What do I do to pull him out?" He spat the words out like grains of sand.

"The flag. It's on the shelf right below you."

Rerdas stooped to pick up the thin metal stem of a black satin banner. He hesitated, paralyzed. If he stopped the fight now, he was cutting off any chance for them. All their onyx, gone. All their hope.

Below him, Imalroc evaded another cross-body cut from the short sword and was clipped on the chin by the dirk. He threw himself backwards to avoid having part of his face sliced off, and fell back onto one knee. His sword rose too slowly. Hanover's blade descended as Rerdas' arm shot straight up, banner in hand.

"Battle's end! Surrender by the Estate Toriem!" cried the fight marshal, waving one arm frantically above his head to get the fighters' attention. The Duke's champion missed Imalroc's head again, the blade ruffling the air as Imalroc crushed himself into the battlebox floor in one last escape. Hanover spotted the marshal and took an uncertain step backward at a signal from his whooping handler.

Imalroc lay on the sand in front of him, his chest rising and falling with deep gulps of air, eyes closed against the bright lights and the hot, jeering crowd.

Rerdas looked straight up to where Etiana sat in her chair, her face a stunned mask. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Warwick slinking down toward the stairs that led toward the battlebox.

"Come back here," he snarled, stalking out of the pew and up to the old clearer. "Tell me what you know. Why did that just happen?" He stood directly in front of Warwick, hands clenched at his sides. Ignoring the indignant crowd, who undoubtedly would have preferred him to keep the fight going.

Warwick averted his eyes. "He's not the fighter he used to be, Master Toriem."

"That's not what you fucking said. You said that he's not going to fight him, not that he couldn't. Wouldn't. And you were right, weren't you? Only one real attack during that whole fight. What's the fuck is going on down there?"

"Perhaps...his shoulder—"

"Bullshit." Rerdas took a step closer, crowding Warwick backwards. "His shoulder is fine. Tell me the truth old man, or I swear to the earthbound gods I will go down there and gut him myself."

"He...doesn't want to win anymore."

Rerdas' eyebrows shot up. "Why the fuck not?"

"I..." Warwick opened his mouth and then shut it again, casting a quick glance down to where the guards were dragging Imalroc out of the battlebox.

"Fuck it." Rerdas knocked Warwick aside with his shoulder.

The battlebox clearer jumped sideways to stay with him, words boiling to the surface. "Imalroc fought for the Duke of Wester for eight full cycles. After his first two seasons under Colm Lydak, the trainer saw Imalroc's immense potential, but...Imalroc was not obedient. Normally, difficult young fighters are broken, but Imalroc proved impossible to bend to their will, and the Duke was impatient to get him into the battleboxes. But you can't send a fighter into the boxes when he refuses to accept that his real enemy is the one in the box with him, not his masters. So the Duke of Wester made Imalroc a promise. To get him to fight. He told him that if he fought and won for seven full cycles, he would earn back his contract."

Rerdas halted in his tracks. "Wester was going to free him?"

Warwick looked at him for a long moment, the creases on his face deepening as his jaw tightened. "He said so. Imalroc believed him...for a time."

"Meaning?"

"The promised seven cycles passed two seasons ago. The Duke of Wester had no intention of freeing his greatest fighter. So...Imalroc decided he was done winning."

"You're telling me that he goes in there knowing he's going to lose. On purpose."

"Yes."

"Fucking gods. I'll kill him!" Rerdas shouted, shoving Warwick out of the way.

"Master—"

"Get off!" Rerdas tore down the narrow pathway, leaving Etiana to wear the mask of gracious defeat. He made straight for Imalroc's cell in the bowels of Iffroa, with Warwick still at his heels. He bolted down the quiet, dim hall between the holding cells, skidding to a stop when he was more than halfway down the row.

"Where is he?" His whole body trembled with rage.

Warwick wore his blank mask again. "He'll be in the medic's chamber, sir."

Rerdas found the door the servant girl had led him through earlier and stormed down into one of the cavernous tunnels that streamed into the battlebox.

Imalroc was sitting on the table, surrounded by a ring of pike-wielding guards and a nervous-looking medic. His sword lay on the opposite side of the room, propped against the bench. The fighter winced as the medic pulled another loop of gauzy white cloth tight around his chest.

Rerdas strode into the room, his hand on his hunting dagger. "Get out," he said to the guards. The medic froze, eyeing him. The nearest guard glanced over.

"Sir, we cannot leave the—"

"Out!" Rerdas thundered, pouring all of his blistering anger into it. The guards backed out of the room without another protest, and the medic scurried along with them. Only Warwick stayed, bracing himself in the doorway at Rerdas' back as the huntmaster advanced on the wounded battleboxer.

Imalroc had his head lowered, hands resting lightly on his knees.

"Congratulations," Rerdas said.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Master."

"No, you're not. This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? Having fun, are you? Really rubbing it in Wester's face?"

Imalroc's head jerked up. He looked over the huntmaster's shoulder, toward the old clearer.

"Oh, yes, your friend here told me all about your fucking idiotic plan."

"I have no plan, Master," Imalroc said. But as he said it, he lifted his chin. His face split in a savage grin. With one eye nearly swollen shut and his face crusted with dried blood, he looked like a madman.

Despair clawed in Rerdas' throat, but anger burnt it away. Imalroc had done this to them. They were trapped now, with no onyx and no way to get more. His beloved aunt's fate was sealed.

Rerdas did not even recognize his own hand as it rose. He swung like he was a trying to fell a tree with a single axe-blow. Imalroc was knocked halfway across the table.

The battleboxer propped himself up, fresh blood dribbling down his chin and a horrible hacking sound spilling from his mouth. It was a long moment before Rerdas recognized the sound as laughter. Imalroc was laughing at him.

"You fucking..." Rerdas whispered. He drew his hunting knife from its decorative scabbard.

The battleboxer's laughter stopped at the rasp of the blade clearing its casing.

"Ever killed a man, hunter?" Imalroc's voice slick as ice and unafraid.

"I'm about to, you fucking madman—"

"Rerdas!" Etiana's voice cut through the buzz in Rerdas' head. "What are you doing?"

"Dealing with this mess!" He did not take his eyes off Imalroc's tensed form.

"Don't, Rerdas...he's worth nothing if we damage him too much. We'll sell him off somehow. Come on. Let's just go." Etiana slipped into the room and touched her cousin's shoulder.

Rerdas stared at the grinning battleboxer, but Etiana's presence had punctured the momentum of his rage. They were in trouble before, but now they would be truly desperate. He sheathed his blade with shaking hands.

"Warwick," Etiana said, clearing her throat and addressing the old battle box clearer, "If you could see to it that Imalroc is loaded into his cage? We do not wish to linger here."

"Of course, milady."

Etiana seized Rerdas' arm and pulled him into the tunnel without another word. He stumbled mutely after her.

"Can we just leave?" he asked, once they made it back into the corridor of the holding cells.

Etiana bit her lip. "It won't look good, but nobody would be surprised. But...you do need to say something to the Duke of Umber. He was very gracious when he spoke to me, but quite insistent that he get a chance to talk to you."

"I don't want—"

"Rerdas." Etiana stopped suddenly, turning to face him. Her eyes were glassy with tears, and she squeezed his forearm as she spoke. "I am so sorry that I—this is my fault. But we are going to need any help we can get. Please, please, just say something to encourage his intentions. We need him."

"I'll try," Rerdas said, his heart constricting as Etiana's desperation hit him. "You go to the carriage. I'll only need a moment, and I don't want you getting caught up in a circle of two-faced courtiers. They'll only want to humiliate us further."

"Only a moment? Rerdas, you need to—"

"I know. Just go to the carriage. I'll meet you out front."

Rerdas stepped into Iffroa's grand entrance hall alone. He smiled tightly at the false sympathy cloaking the faces of the people nearest to him, and searched for the Duke. Umber stood toward the back of the hall, surrounded by a fawning audience. He started forward, clinging to his determination, but the Duke of Wester appeared and blocked his path.

"Huntmaster Toriem. Such an unfortunate outcome. I understand how you must be feeling," the Duke drawled.

Rerdas had a fleeting vision of swiping his hunting dagger across the man's face, but he dammed the desire as best he could. Fixed an icicle smile in place instead. "Yes, Your Grace, I imagine that no one understands quite as well as you do how it feels to lose like this."

The Duke's eyes narrowed and his smile vanished. "Watch your tongue, huntmaster. You may be favored by Umber, but I hold you in no such regard."

"I meant no offense, Your Grace." Rerdas made an exaggerated court bow. "Only that as Imalroc's previous owner, you must understand better than most how we feel at the moment. But I am still grateful that you sold my cousin such a dedicated fighter." He straightened and bolted past Wester without a backwards glance.

He shoved his way into the Duke of Umber's circle. Umber blinked when he spotted the huntmaster and stopped midsentence.

"Master Toriem! It's good to...ah...I am sorry for the rather unfortunate end of—" He got no further.

"No need to apologize, Your Grace. You sent an excellent fighter into the box, and it was a fair fight. Might I speak with you for a moment?" Ignoring the scandalized looks on the faces of the courtiers around them, Rerdas grabbed the duke's sleeve and towed him toward one of the cloakrooms. He snapped his fingers at the attendant, who scampered away without a word.

"Rerdas," the Duke said "I thought you had left. I know you must be disappointed, but—"

He swung around and placed both his hands on Umber's broad shoulders. "Your Grace, I meant what I said before. It was a fair fight, and you were doing us a favor by allowing it to happen in the first place."

"Then...you will stay for the party?" Umber took a half step forward.

Rerdas looked up into the man's hopeful face. He was handsome and kind and generous...definitely more than just interested...why the fuck couldn't he make himself feel anything for this one?

"I'm grateful to you Your Grace, but I really don't want to stay at this particular party. Surely you can understand?"

Umber pouted. "Not even at my behest? I mean so little to you?"

Eternals, they'd had one conversation. Two, if he counted sitting on a rug at Umber's side during the hunt, but he might as well have been a piece of furniture at that event. If it were anyone else, Rerdas would have laughed incredulously at the wounded note in the man's voice.

"Your behest?" he echoed carefully. "Are you ordering me to—"

"Don't be absurd. I'd like you to stay, that's all." His hand cupped Rerdas' neck.

Rerdas swallowed the stifling air and tried to select all the right notes when he spoke. "I'm afraid I can't, Your Grace. But...that said..." He looked up at Umber. "I wasn't going to leave without..."

The Duke cocked his head. "Without what?"

Rerdas simply stepped in and crushed his lips against Umber's, pushing the Duke back against the cloakroom door. Umber let out a muffled sound of pleased surprise. A bit like the squeal of a pig at a trough. He caught the huntmaster in his arms and drew him closer. Rerdas closed his eyes and opened to the kiss. Warm hands slid inside his shirt and traced the tight muscles in his back. He let it go on for a few more heartbeats before he began to disentangle himself.

"I must go, Your Grace."

"No," groaned the Duke.

"I have every intention of seeing you again, if you are amenable."

"You are unkind, huntmaster!"

"It is not my intention, Your Grace. Congratulations on your win. Have a wonderful night, and I pray I see you soon," Rerdas said, a shadow of a smile crossing his face.

The Duke groped for him, but Rerdas stepped past him and escaped. He tugged his disheveled clothing back into place as he stole out of the cloakroom.

Etiana was waiting with the cart. She sat beneath the cover of a moldy canopy, sheltered from the drizzling rain. Rerdas hopped up beside her and nodded silently at Hammond. The butler turned the horses out of the courtyard.

The sounds of celebration echoed out of Iffroa and leaked out into the empty streets. The noise followed them for too long. From every window, the stumps of red candles gave off the last of their ruddy light. Red King's Eve had again proved itself a cruel and godless night.